


Unfamiliar

by saltythumbtack



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of sex but no actual sex, Mild Angst, Napoleon's a bit of an ass but he sorts himself out, Period-Typical Homophobia, because the author is tired and hates writing smut, but no actual homophobia in the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltythumbtack/pseuds/saltythumbtack
Summary: Their work is predictable, in a way. Napoleon lives through a routine of improvisation and chaos, but it's a familiar routine. Some things-things like genuine love and affection for the people he's close to-are unfamiliar.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 1
Kudos: 110





	Unfamiliar

Istanbul was a mess.

Napoleon didn’t realize at first how much of a mess it was, but to be fair, he spent most of his time drunk or getting drunk. He lashed out at Illya constantly, trying to goad the other man into a fight. Gaby spent as much time out of the safe house as possible. She made it very clear that she didn’t care to listen to the boys fight, and as long as they were done when she got back, she didn’t want to hear about it.

So Napoleon drank his way through most of the bars in the city, fought, fucked, and occasionally pretended to be a spy.

What was the point?

UNCLE would get bored of him. Sanders and the CIA would come for him, and then Napoleon would be back on his leash, reduced to stealing the odd painting to supplement his meager wages. Gaby would go back to being whatever she was, a spy or a mechanic, Napoleon didn’t know. And Illya?

Illya would go back behind the wall. He’d disappear completely. The KGB would get their hands on him, and Napoleon would never hear from him again.

So it was better that he didn’t get attached to any of them. Piss them off, make it clear that he was nothing but a no-good womanizing drunk, albeit a drunk who was alarmingly good at stealing, and they wouldn’t miss him when he was gone. Gaby was fond of him, that much he knew, and it made his job all the more difficult. She liked him, in her aloof, uncaring way, and it hurt him to know that this would surely be their last time working together. 

He’d assumed that Illya would be the quickest to give up on him. Waverly would hardly be surprised if Napoleon turned out to be a drunkard, though he’d doubtless be a little disappointed at the lost opportunity. Thieves like Napoleon were few and far between, and Napoleon was smart enough to know that he was an asset.

But Illya didn’t give up.

In fact, Napoleon’s attempts to _make_ him give up only seemed to make Illya more determined to fix him. Every time he staggered home, slurring his speech and reeking of alcohol, Illya helped him. He’d sigh, clench his jaw, drum out a staccato rhythm on his thigh for a few beats, and then drag Napoleon into a cold shower and change his clothes. It was fascinating and made Napoleon’s chest ache in a funny sort of way that terrified him to think about.

So he ignored it, because he was a responsible adult who definitely did not care for his taller counterpart.

But then Istanbul didn’t turn out to be their last mission, and they were sent off to Egypt, where it was hot and dry and prevented Napoleon from wearing his favorite suits. He responded to the heat like any sane man would, and spent much of his time in a state of undress, much to Illya’s discomfort and Gaby’s delight. She had taken it upon herself to pretend that Napoleon was an exotic dancer, and would occasionally stuff dollar bills into his waistband. Napoleon thrived under the attention and didn’t complain about the extra cash. Illya, on the other hand…

“Must you be so indecent, always?” Illya asked, sounding more bored than irritated. 

“It’s hot, Peril. We can’t all go around wearing turtlenecks in this head; we’ll die.” Napoleon replied, a little techy. The heat made him cranky, and Illya’s seeming imperviousness to their surroundings only made it worse.

“You will die of something you contract by being indecent.” Illya muttered, quiet enough that Napoleon could pretend to ignore him if he wanted to. Napoleon didn’t want to. He’d been waiting for any excuse to pick a fight with someone.

“What, the Party doesn’t let you fuck? How sad.” Napoleon sneered. “We have something called “freedom” back in the States; maybe you should try coming over and see how you like it?”

Illya shrugged. “Still illegal for me to get married. Not much freedom then, mm?”

Napoleon stopped, dumbstruck. Illya noticed his reaction, and smiled. It was a sad sort of smile, but his eyes showed amusement at Napoleon’s silence.

“I’m gay, Cowboy. There might be more opportunity, but there will be nothing permanent.” Illya said, resigned but not unhappy. “I’ve gotten used to it. When this is all over, I will go back to Russia, serve my country. If they ask me to marry someone, I will.” He paused for a moment, then laughed. “I’m sure someone out there will find me handsome.”

“Oh, please. You’re gorgeous. Anyone would be lucky to have you.” Napoleon replied, almost dismissively. Honestly, how could Illya even question his attractiveness? He was 6’5 and built like a bear. 

Illya cleared his throat, and was it Napoleon’s imagination, or was he blushing? Illya shrugged, not meeting Napoleon’s eyes.

“Thank you, Cowboy.”

“My pleasure, Illya.” Napoleon replied smoothly, and no, it wasn’t his imagination. Illya was definitely blushing. It looked truly lovely on him. He was tempted to comment on it, but his tongue was heavy in his suddenly dry mouth. Illya waited awkwardly for a moment, but when Napoleon said nothing, he went back to his book. 

Napoleon watched him pensively for the next few hours, sipping water instead of his usual bourbon. Illya had just volunteered some incredibly sensitive information to him, and Napoleon hadn’t even had to threaten him for it. That was decidedly odd. 

“Does Gaby know?”

Illya laughed, not looking up from his book. “Of course she knows. She asked.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “She asked?” He prompted, hoping Illya would tell him more.

Illya sighed, closing his book. “She said, and I quote, “I want to know if it’s worth my while to get close to you. Do you expect me to sleep with you, or are you capable of handling a friendship with a woman?” I told her she didn’t have to worry, and that I would be more than happy to be her friend.”

Napoleon whistled, impressed. “Very direct, isn’t she?”

“Yes, quite.” Illya agreed, fondness creeping into his voice. Napoleon allowed him to glow in his contentedness for a few moments, and then asked,

“Does Waverly know?”

Illya’s face darkened. “No.” He said shortly. “Neither does Oleg.”

“Why not? I understand why you wouldn’t tell Oleg, but surely Waverly would be more understanding.”

Illya snorted. “It doesn’t matter how effective an agent I am. I am gay, and that is a crime. Waverly would still let me work, but not because he supports me. Is because I am necessary and good at my job.”

“But-”

“Do you like men, Solo?” Illya cut him off.

“No.” Napoleon answered on reflex. It was a lie; it always had been. But like Illya said, it was safer. 

“Then you wouldn’t be able to understand.” Illya said, without any particular bitterness. 

“But...you should be able to tell them. It shouldn’t matter.” Napoleon said weakly. 

Illya laughed. “Может быть, in an ideal world. But this is not.” Napoleon opened his mouth, trying to think of something to say, but words failed him.  
“Don’t worry.” Illya said, leaning over to pat Napoleon’s shoulder. “I won’t hold your idealism against you.”

Napoleon fell silent, returning to his musings. Illya read his book, frowning at whatever existential question this latest overly long novel posed to him. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, until Gaby returned and decided that the house was too quiet.

“Napoleon, I can’t believe you. Illya is sitting there, quietly reading a book, and you’re not disturbing him? And you’re drinking _water_? Have I missed something?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Gaby rolled her eyes. “Who did you shoot?” 

“No one!” Illya protested. “I have been here, reading. I haven’t killed anyone.”

Gaby nodded, looking pleasantly surprised. “Well, that’s a first.” She turned to Napoleon. “All right, spit it out. What’ve you done? Did you steal something? Sleep with someone important?”

“You have so little faith in me.” Napoleon grumbled. “No; for your information, I have also been here all day. I haven’t done anything.”

Gaby frowned. “So then what’s gotten into you?”

“I’m gay.” Illya said.

“Yes, I know. Is that relevant?”

“It’s always relevant.” Illya said under his breath, at the same time that Napoleon said “I just found out.”

“Oh. Cool.” Gaby said, crossing over to Napoleon’s abandoned bottle of bourbon. She took a swig, then turned back to her boys.  
“Sorry, was there a big argument in there that I missed? Do I have to kill him?” She asked, gesturing to Napoleon.

Illya shook his head. “No, he’s fine. Just straight.” He sent a pointed glance with Gaby, who returned it with equal feeling.

“Wait, wait, what’s that?” Napoleon asked, sitting up straight.

“What’s what?” They replied in unison.

“That!” Napoleon said, pointing at the two of them. “What was that look supposed to mean?”

Illya shrugged, putting on his best innocent face. It wasn’t very good, but Napoleon wasn’t focused on him. He was staring accusingly at Gaby, who had an annoyingly superior look on her face.

“You’ll find out soon enough, with any luck.” Gaby replied. “In the meantime, we have work to do. Luckily, it’s not in Egypt, so Napoleon, you can put your clothes back on.”

“More’s the pity.” Illya muttered.

“Hush. We’re being professional.” Gaby snapped, without any real bite to it. “It’s in lovely, rainy England, and we’re supposed to be tracking down some old artwork that went missing during World War II. Napoleon, this is your speciality, but if you could please give the artwork _back_ to UNCLE after stealing it, that’d be ideal.”

“What do I do?” Illya asked.

Gaby grinned wolfishly. “That’s the fun part. You and I are going to be casing the mansion where the art is held. The owner is having a little party to show off their latest acquisitions, and Waverly has gotten us an invitation.”

“Why is it that you two get to go to parties and I have to do the dirty work?” Napoleon complained. 

“Because you’re the best at stealing things and Illya and I are hot.” Gaby said, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. 

“I’m hot too!” Napoleon protested, throwing his hands up. “I’m always the one that seduces people--come to think of it, that’s cause Illya’s gay, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Illya said.

“No.” Gaby said, rolling her eyes. “It’s because you know how to flirt with people, and you’re always willing to seduce someone. Illya couldn’t flirt with someone if his life depended on it.”

Illya inclined his head in a “that’s fair” sort of motion, not looking at all offended at Gaby’s frank description of his flirting abilities.

Napoleon remained seated, feeling thoroughly as though he’d missed something. It was an unusual feeling. Being a spy, he’d gotten rather good at reading people, and more than that, at figuring out what was going on. But here, surrounded by the sweltering heat of Egypt and two people who evidently knew something he didn’t, hair plastered inelegantly to his forehead and his best suits wasting away in the minute closet, he’d never felt more out of his element. 

Best get back to London quickly then, back to territory that Napoleon was far more comfortable with.

The flight passed quickly, comforting Napoleon with its familiarity. The casual flirtations with the stewardesses, the aftertaste of cheap alcohol lingering in his throat, leaving him somehow more parched than before. Soon enough they had touched down and been subsequently whisked away in the waiting black car. Napoleon idly thought that if agencies truly wanted to be inconspicuous, they’d stop using the same model of black car for every clandestine operation. Someone was bound to catch on eventually.

London brought with it another familiar song and dance. Napoleon did his job with minimal complaining, drank, wore his favorite suits, womanized, and bothered Illya. The other man didn’t regard Napoleon any differently since his confession, but Napoleon couldn’t help but feel a niggling suspicion that something was amiss. He knew he was missing something, he knew that Illya and Gaby exchanged glances and muttered words that Napoleon strained to make out but couldn’t. He felt thoroughly as though he was being made a fool of, and that was not a feeling he was familiar with.

The execution of the job only exacerbated that feeling.

It started the fateful night that the heist was to go down. Illya and Gaby were dressed in their best clothes, and Napoleon wasn’t afraid to admit that they made quite the couple. They were gorgeous separately, and together they were intimidatingly perfect. He told them as much, to which Gaby laughed uproariously and Illya quietly blushed.

Napoleon normally would’ve capitalized on this, prodded Illya on why he was flustered, insinuated that there was something between the two, asked Illya why Napoleon could make him blush so easily. But then their eyes met and the words died on Napoleon’s tongue, and he froze in spite of himself, not wanting to lose the sensation of Illya’s eyes on him.

Odd.

Most decidedly odd.

Napoleon did his best to ignore it, but somehow the niggling feeling that he was missing something grew stronger. A quiet voice sprung up in the back of his head, whispering that Napoleon was just a bit of a fool for not being able to figure this one out. 

To his credit, it wasn’t as though Napoleon was trying to ignore it. No, for once, he’d actually sat down and tried to think, to reflect on his actions and see what he was missing. Granted, he’d been accompanied by a particularly expensive vintage of wine, but it was something. Try as he might, he couldn’t figure it out. Nothing fit, nothing made sense, nothing clicked and cleared his mind of doubts. 

It was quite frustrating, and Napoleon hated being frustrated.

He was a simple man. He saw things he wanted, paintings he liked, women--men he liked, and he never hesitated. 

So why was he so...hesitant?

He was hesitant.

More than that, he was afraid.

Afraid that…

That he cared.

That he cared for Illya, perhaps more than he should. Perhaps in a way that was more than coworkers, more than friends, more than even what their merry little band had become. He knew he loved Gaby, there was no question about that. Gaby was a perfect complement to him, someone who could stand up to him verbally and in a drinking contest. She was unafraid and unashamed and everything Napoleon was, and he loved her for that.

Illya was not.

He was quiet and reserved, but prone to intense outbursts of emotion. He was passionate, in a way that neither Gaby nor Napoleon could ever hope to be, simply because they were not secretive creatures who denied themselves pleasures, no matter how simple or small. Illya approached life with a worldview entirely opposite to them, and in that way rounded the group out perfectly. He was headstrong, yes, and stubborn as a mule, but he was willing to listen and change and always planned things out beforehand. He loved sweets, but rarely allowed himself any, because for him, absence truly did make the heart grow fonder, and the sugar sweeter. 

And Napoleon-

Napoleon loved him for that.

And it terrified the hell out of him.

How could he be in love with Illya? How could he look at that man, someone who he’d been ordered to kill, someone who had been ordered to kill him, and think of love? The man who he’d once described as barely even human, who he’d seen kill without hesitation or mercy, was now supposed to be an object of love?

How could Illya love him?

Unless...

Ah.

So that was why he was a fool.

That was what those looks had meant.

Illya was in love with him, and was patiently waiting for Napoleon to figure it out.

...and Napoleon had told Illya he was not gay, which was not entirely a lie, but was definitely not the truth.

Well.

He’d certainly gotten himself into a predicament, hadn’t he?

Now, how best to get out of it?

He decided that approaching Gaby would be the best way to go about things. 

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Congratulations.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Thank you. In all seriousness, though, I’ve been thinking. About-” He paused, taking a deep, calming breath. “About Illya.”

“Really?” Gaby’s voice was flat, but Napoleon knew her interest was piqued. “What sorts of things have you been thinking about?”

“I told him I wasn’t gay. That was...a bit of a lie.”

“Shocking.”

“Yes, well-wait. You knew?”

It was Gaby’s turn to roll her eyes. “Of course I _knew_. We both did. You’re not exactly subtle about your lack of preferences. We just thought that you needed some time to figure it out. Or to figure out that you like Illya.”

Napoleon sniffed, a little put-out that this wasn’t having the dramatic effect that he desired. “Well, I figured out both. All by myself. Happy?”

“Mhm. I’m very proud of you.” Her voice was devoid of any semblance of pride, but Napoleon took it in stride. He knew that deep down in Gaby’s devious little soul, she was happy. 

“How are you going to go about telling Illya?” She asked, and that was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?

Napoleon shrugged. “I thought I might let him figure it out himself. He is a spy, after all.”

Gaby scowled. “That’s a terrible idea. He’s trying to be respectful of your boundaries, Napoleon. Don’t make him push.”

“Oh.” Napoleon blinked, taken aback. “That’s...very kind of him.”

“It is.” Gaby replied evenly. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to make him disrespect you.”

Napoleon quieted, suitably chastised. It wasn’t that he was trying to make the other man disrespect him, it was just that Napoleon was, well, afraid to make a move. Illya was an intimidating presence and the idea that they might be mutually interested in each other was still a foreign one.

See, despite his best efforts, Napoleon was a creature of habit. He knew what he liked and he sought to surround himself with it. He was a spy, sure, and his job involved copious amounts of secrecy, cloak-and-dagger nonsense, need-to-know bases, and improvisation, but it was all familiar. Napoleon didn’t like going outside of his comfort zone, and intimacy--real, heartfelt intimacy, love for another person--was outside of that comfort zone.

Luckily for Napoleon, he was a dashingly handsome, debonair spy, well-versed in the intricacies of human connection.

More importantly, Illya was also a spy, and Gaby would doubtless relay Napoleon’s revelation to him if she felt Napoleon was taking too long to cut to the chase.

Napoleon did, to his credit, intend to cut to the chase. It was just that he got distracted, is all. Work. Travel. Waverly. International politics and espionage and the threat of a global war and nuclear winter.

You know.

The usual.

Life always found a way, though, devious little thing. Gaby left the two of them at their hotel, claiming she needed a break from all of the testosterone and bickering. It was a perfectly reasonable excuse, and Napoleon would’ve believed it if not for the look she sent him as she left. It would’ve killed a man of weaker constitution, but fortunately for Napoleon, he’d developed a bit of resistance to Gaby’s glares. Only a bit, though. The look still made him shiver.

He made his way to the living room, draping himself elegantly over the couch. Illya didn’t look up from his book, but inclined his head slightly in greeting.

“Peril.”

“Cowboy.”

Napoleon inspected his fingernails, more to avoid looking at Illya than anything else. “I thought we should talk.”

“Why?”

Napoleon sighed. “Because I have something to say to you, Peril.”

Illya closed his book, looking up at Napoleon. “I’m listening.”

“I lied to you.”

Illya snorted. “Hardly surprising. You are a liar.” He half-opened his book, looking at Napoleon for confirmation. “Was that it?”

“No.” Napoleon grumbled. “And you might try having a little more faith in me, Peril. I’m more honest than you know.”

“Mm.”

There was a beat of silence, then Illya made a “go on” motion. Napoleon swallowed, steeling himself. _It’s okay. Illya’s gay. He’s not going to be upset._

“I’m bisexual. I lied to you, when I said I wasn’t gay.”

“That’s okay.” Illya said, smiling gently. “These things are hard to talk about. Especially when, you know, people are hard to predict. Their reactions are not always good.”

Napoleon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, shoulders sagging in relief. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Silence.

“I like you. Romantically.”

Illya laughed, but there was no malice or mocking undertone. It was...happy. Disbelieving, maybe. 

“I had hoped so, Cowboy. Would’ve been bad for me if you didn’t.”

“So you-you feel the same way?” Napoleon asked, feeling for all the world like he was a schoolboy confessing to his object of affection.

“I do, Cowboy.” Illya replied smoothly. “I was hoping that you might make the first move, as you say, if only because I did not want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Yes, Gaby had mentioned that. She’s very perceptive.”

Silence fell once again, and Napoleon had to resist the urge to squirm in his seat. This was strange and new and he hated it. It was good! It was good, of course, this was a good thing, but it was unfamiliar and it was going to change so many things about what was already a well-functioning working relationship.

“So, ah, where do we go from here?” Napoleon asked, when the silence had become too much for him.

Illya shrugged. “Not sure. We keep working together, Gaby yells at us, we fight, we get yelled at by men in suits who we don’t trust.”

Napoleon made a noise of affirmation. “We do live quite predictable lives, don’t we?”

“In a way.”

“Shall we get dinner, before Gaby comes back?”

Illya snorted. “I think she expects us to fuck or kill each other. I doubt she’ll be coming back tonight.”

“Well, in that case, care to get dinner and expensive whiskey?”

Illya’s eyes gleamed. “I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello it's been literal years, how sad, but I'm back. Life is chaotic and none of this was planned for but that's fine, good to know I'm still gonna write fanfiction. Wahoo. Not 100% happy with this one, but can't expect perfection. Hope you enjoy! If you enjoy my works, you can read more, or [ buy me a coffee! ](https://ko-fi.com/cordsnake)


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